


Five Times the Comte de la Sass Verbally Slapped Someone...

by Tenebrielle



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Drinking, Friendship, Gambling, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Messing with Red Guards, Sass, Season 1 Spoilers, comte de la sass, little bit of whump, playing cards, words as weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-07 18:18:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1908963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenebrielle/pseuds/Tenebrielle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...and the one time he just punched them in the face instead.</p><p>(BBC Musketeers kinkmeme prompt fill!)</p><p>Part 1: The Husband<br/>Part 2: The Cheat<br/>Part 3: The Enemy<br/>Part 4: The Cardinal<br/>Part 5: The Lover<br/>Part +1: The Specter</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Husband

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Isilarma, meskeet, Red Tigress, and the other betas of the Beta Branch for helping me whip this into shape! It will be updated regularly, and tags and warnings will be added as necessary. :)

* * *

 

Porthos and his comrades had caught Constance mid-baking, covered in flour and up to her elbows in pastry. Since d’Artagnan’s departure, they did not often visit Bonacieux’s house, though Constance did try to stop by the garrison occasionally. Judging by her broad smile when they appeared on her doorstep, they had been missed. Her pleasure became astonishment, however, when Athos handed her the roll of parchment marked with the Queen’s own seal.

“ _Me?_ ” Constance asked incredulously, re-reading the royal summons with wide eyes, “she, the _Queen_ , wants me?”

Porthos chuckled and reached for a tidbit of pastry, but Constance smacked his hand away. She handed the parchment back to Athos and picked up a large wooden spoon, only to set it down again quickly. She was obviously flustered by their news, but there was a joyful sparkle in her eyes and a pair of colored spots in her cheeks that had been too long absent.

“To work in the palace, yes,” Aramis said. Even the faint gloom that had haunted him since the Queen’s announcement seemed lightened by Constance’s enthusiasm.

“The Queen is in a…delicate position,” Athos explained, picking up where Aramis left off. “She has few friends left at court, thanks to the Cardinal.”

“She has need of a loyal friend, someone upon whom she could rely absolutely,” Aramis added.

“Naturally, we thought of you,” Porthos said with a grin.

Constance beamed at him for a moment before her eyes narrowed with amused suspicion. “You, or d’Artagnan?”

Clever, she was. Porthos laughed aloud at that, while Aramis chuckled and Athos graced them with a rare full smile. “Credit where credit’s due,” Porthos told her. “It _was_ d’Artagnan’s idea to recommend you to the Queen.”

“Will I see him often at the palace?” she asked eagerly.

“Your duties would be mostly in the Queen’s private chambers,” Aramis told her. “We Musketeers are not often admitted.”

The corner of Porthos’ mouth twitched with amusement, and Athos carefully avoided Aramis’ eyes. Constance’s face fell a little.

“Not often,” Aramis reassured her with a smile, “is not never.”

Athos cringed at his words, even as Constance brightened again. “As the wife of one of the Cardinal’s loyal servants,” he said quickly, steering the conversation away from _that_ most dangerous subject, “he could not object to appointing you.”

Constance laughed at his less-than-flattering description of Bonacieux but she looked a little apprehensive despite her obvious pleasure. “But I’ve never been a maid before,” she said worriedly. “And I should have to ask my husband.”

“Ask me what?” Monsieur Bonacieux said from the doorway, and they all looked up. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the three musketeers gathered around his pretty young wife, though they had deliberately not brought d’Artagnan to avoid causing a real problem. “What are _you_ doing here?” he sneered at them.

Porthos rolled his eyes at Aramis and they stepped protectively closer to Constance. Athos moved forward to confront Bonacieux. He waved the roll of parchment under Bonacieux’s nose, making sure that the royal seal was plainly visible.

“We bring a summons from the palace,” Athos told him. “The Queen has requested the services of Madame Bonacieux as her new maid.”

“Of my wife?” Bonacieux gaped, looking from Athos to Constance and back to Athos. “The Queen herself?”

“She has, monsieur,” Athos said evenly, though with a touch of disdain.

“I am unsure I wish my wife to work outside our home,” Bonacieux sniffed, and Constance’s face fell. But there were wheels turning behind his eyes. Aramis shot Porthos a look, and Porthos stifled a chuckle. Really, this Bonacieux was dense if he thought he was going to get one over on the Cardinal this way.

Athos raised an eyebrow. “Regardless, the Queen has summoned her,” he said. He reached up to set his hat back on his head; a signal to leave. “While I am sure that the draper to Cardinal Richelieu must command great favor at court, Her Majesty’s wishes are quite clear on this matter.”

Bonacieux’s eyes widened slightly at the veiled insult. He spluttered, fumbling for a reply, but Constance cut him off before he could devise an appropriate retort. “Really, Jacques,” she said shortly. “It is a great honor to serve Her Majesty. Besides, we need the money.”

Bonacieux went red with embarrassment and no small amount of anger. His mouth indignantly flapped open and closed like a fish’s a few times before he huffed and turned away. It was as close to consent as Constance was going to get. She turned and beamed excitedly at the musketeers.

“It’s settled, then,” Porthos said with a smile. D’Artagnan was going to be pleased, he was. Perhaps he would mope a little less around the garrison now.

“We’ll return in the morning, to escort Madame Bonacieux to the palace,” Athos added. They all tipped their hats to Constance, and left the house chuckling at Bonacieux’s sour expression.


	2. The Cheat

Athos had no particular fondness for cards, but Aramis had little trouble convincing Porthos to join him for a game. The two of them managed to talk d’Artagnan round, and they were joined by a pair of Red Guards who had taken Aramis up on his offer to the tavern at large to join the game. Athos shifted in his seat to be sure he had unobstructed access to his pistol and poniard, just in case, but so far play had remained surprisingly civil. This civility was no doubt assisted by the bottles of wine provided by the Red Guards, who seemed a more cheerful bunch than usual, if not particularly clever.

After two hours’ play, the pile of coin in the center of the table had reached a considerable sum. The two Red Guards were scowling now despite the wine; Athos reckoned they had lost many livres between them. D’Artagnan was down to his last few sous. Porthos still had a small pile of silver in front of him, but judging from the way he kept twisting his moustache, he had lost far more than he had won.

In contrast, Aramis was doing well. Too well, in fact, as Athos knew he was a mediocre player at best.

It took Athos a while to spot his trick. Aramis was a more cautious cheat than Porthos, but a cheat he was. He used his opportunities to deal as a cover. And there it was, a gesture to draw the eye away as he deftly flicked a card out of his sleeve and into his hand. The card it replaced was carefully palmed and hidden away. Athos smirked inwardly.

“ _Je file_ ,” d’Artagnan spat, dropping his cards to the table with obvious disgust and leaning back in his chair with a huff. “Bit late to cut my losses, though.”

“ _Je tiens_ ,” the smaller Guard said with a scowl, tossing a few coins to the center. His narrowed eyes flicked to Porthos, keeping a close watch on his hands.

Porthos eyed him in return, eyed his cards, and eyed Aramis. “ _Je tiens_ ,” he said confidently, adding the same number of coins to the pile.

The other Guard, a big blond man, shrugged and set his cards face-down on the table. “ _Je file_ ,” he announced ruefully. “Deal me out next round, lads; I’ve lost enough for one night.”

Aramis flashed a brilliant smile. “ _Je tiens,”_ he said, tossing the requisite number of coins onto the pile. He grabbed a double handful of silver and pushed it to join them. Athos could hear a sharp intake of breath from Porthos as he did so.   “ _Et_ _je revis!_ ”

Everyone was looking at Aramis. He always did like being the center of attention, Athos thought. “Anyone else?” Aramis asked. Heads shook around the table. He clapped his hands together eagerly. “All right, gentlemen. Reveal your hands!”

The smaller Guard smirked and flipped his cards over, revealing two queens and a nine. It was a fair hand. Porthos let out a grunt of disappointment and muttered a curse under his breath. Athos craned his neck to see his hand; it was poor, and he had been caught in his bluff. With a dramatic flourish, Aramis flipped his own cards over. Three kings stared up at them, to match with the fourth king in the center of the table.

“ _Brelan carré!_ ” Aramis announced cheerfully.

Groans burst out from around the table. D’Artagnan’s eyes rolled skyward. The smaller of the Red Guards jumped to his feet threateningly. Porthos rose after him, glowering, and folded his arms across his chest. Athos tensed for action. Good sense won out, however, as the blond Guard grabbed his friend’s wrist and shook his head. They collected what was left of their coin and left the tavern, muttering rebelliously. Porthos resumed his seat and downed the remainder of his wine in one gulp.

“Well, you’ve outdone yourself this time, Aramis,” d’Artagnan said sourly, while Aramis swept his winnings towards his chest with a large grin. “Half my rent money’s in there.”

“When’d you get so good at cards?” Porthos demanded suspiciously. The experienced gambler was less disheartened by his losses than d’Artagnan, but Athos knew for a fact he would be dining on air like the proverbial chameleon for the next fortnight if his ill luck held.  

Aramis shrugged, clearly unbothered by his friend’s distrust. “Another game? Perhaps you can win back some of your rent, d’Artagnan.”

“I’d only lose my shirt along with my rent.”

“You’re right, and it’s not a very fine shirt, is it?” Aramis said smugly. He leaned back in his seat and raised his glass to his companions. “To victory, my friends.”

Athos raised an eyebrow at him. Really, this arrogance could not stand. Before Aramis could blink, Athos’ hand flew out and seized the wrist of Aramis’ wine-free hand. Aramis yelped with surprise and tried to pull away, but Athos had him pinned in an iron grip. Athos forced his hand over and neatly plucked the Queen of Diamonds from inside Aramis’ sleeve. Porthos and d’Artagnan rounded on him, gaping. Aramis’ eyes went wide and he hastily took another drink of wine.

“Well, Aramis, this indiscretion was less…royal than your last,” Athos said, with a half-smile, releasing him and tossing the card onto the pile of Aramis’ winnings. “Though decidedly more profitable.”

Aramis choked on his wine mid-swallow and doubled over, coughing and spluttering. Porthos’ shocked expression was quickly replaced with bellowed laughter as a bemused d’Artagnan clapped Aramis helpfully on the back. Aramis shot Athos a murderous glare between coughs, but there was naught he could say in d’Artagnan’s presence. The boy was not privy to the joke, nor would he be if the others could help it.

“You were cheating this whole time?” d’Artagnan exclaimed.

“How come I always get caught, then?” Porthos demanded over him, though he was still chuckling at Aramis’ obvious discomfort. “And you didn’t?”

“I’ve always been better at cheating than you,” Aramis gasped between coughs.

“Rubbish!” Porthos scoffed. “ _I_ taught _you_ everything you know!”

“Yes, and everyone knows _you_ cheat at cards,” Aramis retorted. “They were too busy watching _you_ to watch _me_.”

Porthos opened his mouth to protest, but Athos raised his eyebrows at him, and Porthos simply scowled instead. D’Artagnan chuckled at his sour expression. No one could deny Aramis had a point.

“I don’t know why you’re all so offended,” Aramis sniffed with mock indignation while he stuffed his winnings into his purse. “It’s all equal shares! One for all, and all that.”

D’Artagnan’s face lit up at his words, and even Porthos looked somewhat mollified. No one could complain taking coin from Red Guards, especially in such an insulting way as by cheating at cards.

“Next time, Aramis,” d’Artagnan said, “do us the courtesy of warning us we’re investing in your little scheme _beforehand,_ hm?”

Aramis raised his hat to him, and d’Artagnan chuckled. Porthos took the bottle abandoned by the Red Guards and refilled all their glasses.

“It appears you will be eating this week after all, Porthos,” Athos observed with another half-smile. Porthos shot him a withering look, and Athos’ smile widened.

“Aye, and we’ll all be keeping you in wine for the next…two days?” Porthos shot back. “How come he gets a share, hm?”

“He’s got a point, Aramis,” d’Artagnan said. “Athos didn’t play.”

“Next you win, you can decide what to do with your winnings.”

“Next I cheat, you mean?”

Athos paid no attention to the good-natured banter, because raised voices from outside the tavern had reached his ears. He stood, looking outside over the patrons’ heads. A cluster of Red Guards surrounded the two Aramis had cheated, gesturing wildly in the Musketeers’ direction and looking angry. Athos glanced at d’Artagnan, who rose and followed his eyes. He reached for his pistol. Athos reached for his cup and hurriedly downed the last of his wine. Apparently he had not been the only person suspicious of Aramis’ winning streak.

“Your new friends seem to have found a few friends of their own, Aramis,” d’Artagnan said. “I suggest we make a hasty exit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The game they are playing is called brelan, which (according to wikipedia) is a precursor to modern poker. The French terms come from a website about card games. Sadly I don't speak French, so please excuse any linguistic errors. :)


	3. The Enemy

Binding his legs was wholly unnecessary, Athos thought with irritation, shooting a venomous glare at the nearest English soldier. He tugged experimentally on the ropes binding his hands to the chair behind his back and huffed with frustration. Even if he had been able to free himself, the musketball that had passed through his thigh during his capture had rendered him unable to walk. Blood still oozed from the wound despite his makeshift attempt at a dressing.

Even now d’Artagnan, disguised as a simple shepherd, was painstakingly sawing his way through his bonds and to freedom. He had kept his head admirably, even while the English soldiers beat him bloody. Now it was up to Athos to ensure he had the time he needed to get away.

The stable door opened and a tall, skeletally-thin man stepped inside. He handed his hat and cloak to one of the English soldiers flanking the door. A pair of cold, dead eyes flicked to Athos. “This is the musketeer?”

“Yes, sir.”

A chill of revulsion raced down Athos’ spine as he studied him. His face was gaunt, almost skull-like, behind a thin black moustache, and his French was far too nuanced for an Englishman. Nor was he a son of the nobility, though his clothes and his posture showed he attempted to pretend as such.

“Where is the letter?” he asked Athos without preamble.

The letter in question, purloined from the Duke of Buckingham, was stuffed down d’Artagnan’s left boot. Neither of them would be allowed to live if it was discovered. Athos looked up at him coolly and lied. “What letter?”

He studied Athos for just a moment too long. A trace of a cold, knowing smile twisted the tall man’s lips. “Do you know who I am, Musketeer?” he asked quietly.  “I am Jean-Dominique Maupain, master interrogator for King Charles himself. I have…extracted confessions from some of the greatest men in England. The Duke does you honor.”

“No doubt you are the epitome of justice and nobility, monsieur,” Athos deadpanned, putting every ounce of frigid disdain he could muster into his voice. “I can see how you demonstrate those virtues while beating injured farm boys and men bound to chairs.”

He had a brief moment of satisfaction as Maupain’s nostrils flared with rage at his remark before his ringed hand hit Athos hard across the face. Pain burst horribly in his jaw and cheekbones, and Athos’ stomach lurched as the chair went over backwards. Unable to catch himself, the back of his head slammed into the floor. His vision went black for a single sickening moment.

They were hauling him upright before Athos could blink the stars from his eyes. Blood dripped from his nose, and the taste of iron was on his tongue. Mercifully he had not landed on his wounded leg.

When his vision cleared, Maupain was inches from his face. It took all of Athos’ self-control to not recoil. “Where is the letter?”

“I do not know,” Athos repeated. His face throbbed, and he could feel blood trickling around the edge of his lip and into his moustache. The sensation made his skin crawl.

“Where is it? What does it contain?”

“I cannot tell you what I do not know,” Athos said evenly. His heart was starting to pound nervously against his ribs in anticipation of pain to come, but one would have never known from his voice. He could do this, he could. He could hold out long enough for d’Artagnan to get away and for Porthos and Aramis to rescue him.

Some of this inner confidence must have shown in his face, because that ghoulish cold smile was back on Maupain’s features. His eyes drifted down to the wound on Athos’ thigh and Athos swallowed. “We shall see what you know, monsieur.”

* * *

 

When word came that the shepherd boy had escaped, Monsieur Maupain was sitting in Athos’ chair watching his stubbornly laconic prisoner intently. The Musketeer had been strung up by his wrists instead. It was doubly cruel as Athos could not bear weight on his injured leg, so he had to either stand on one foot or throw all his weight onto his shoulders. Already the hemp burned his wrists and the ache in his shoulders competed with the hole in his thigh in causing him the most misery.

Athos smiled as Maupain’s face twitched with anger and he got up to leave the room, even as the two soldiers closed in with clubs to beat him senseless. D’Artagnan was away. They would come for him soon.

* * *

 

A bucket of water dashed in his face was never a pleasant way to wake, and Athos jerked back to consciousness with a strangled cry of surprise. He lost his balance on the slick ground, throwing all his weight onto his bound arms. He couldn’t help letting out a faint whimper as his shoulders screamed in protest. Something icy trickled through the hole the musketball had made in his thigh, only to be replaced by the oozing warmth that could only mean it was bleeding again. It throbbed dully beneath the sear of his outstretched arms.

Maupain, the devil, was there, inches away and fully back in control of his temper. He tipped Athos’ face upward with a finger. “Are you ready to speak, monsieur?”

Somehow Athos managed to bare his teeth in a vicious smile. They were coming for him, _they were_ , and he would not be in Maupain’s boots for all the gold in France when they arrived.

* * *

 

He lost track of time, then, and there was nothing until the rope snapped. He was not aware of falling, just the relief in his shoulders while he lay on his back in the dirty straw. Someone was gently slapping his bruised face.

“Athos!” someone cried very near his ear and yet very far away.  “Athos!”

Athos groaned. His eyes fluttered weakly and opened. A bright white line gleamed above him in the dim light, and dully he realized it was _teeth_. Maupain. Instinctive fear shot through him and Athos started. Lightning pain lanced through all his muscles as he tried to scrabble away.

Something warm and leathery, a gloved hand, pressed soothingly across his forehead. “No, it’s all right! It’s me, it’s Aramis!”

Puzzled, Athos blinked, and Aramis’ smiling face resolved out of the gloom. “Aramis?” he croaked.

Aramis’s smile grew and he gave Athos an affectionate pat. “Porthos!” he shouted. “Porthos, he’s here!”

Something large scuffled in the straw and suddenly Porthos was crouching over them, a bloodied sword clutched in his hand and a large grin spread across his face. Athos felt his body relax as relief poured over him. They had come for him at last.

“Thank God,” Aramis exclaimed, clucking over Athos’ wounds. “We thought you were dead!”

Darkness was beginning to encroach on the edges of Athos’ vision, and he felt himself beginning to succumb. “Sorry to…disappoint,” Athos murmured. Their chuckles were the last thing he heard before he drifted into merciful oblivion.


	4. The Cardinal

“They are a menace!” the Cardinal shouted, stabbing his finger in the direction of Aramis, d’Artagnan, and Athos. They all stood up a little straighter as the King’s eyes followed Richelieu’s hand, and their features became studiously neutral. “They spend more time disturbing the King’s peace than defending it!”

None of them had escaped the brawl at Porte Saint-Denis unscathed. Athos walked with a pronounced limp, as the still-healing wound on his thigh had been aggravated when he lunged during a duel. Aramis himself was sporting a bandage on his arm under his spaulder and a split lip beneath his mustache, and d’Artagnan wore a prominently blackened eye. Porthos was abed with a cracked skull, courtesy of the Red Guards who had started the fight. That it was over Porthos’ loaded dice was carefully omitted from every version but that told in Treville’s office.

Captain Treville sighed theatrically, drawing the King’s attention back to himself. “As I heard it, your Red Guards started the whole thing, Cardinal, when they set upon one of my men five to one!”

“Slander!” the Cardinal exclaimed, rounding on Treville. “Your Musketeers-“

“I want them punished!” Treville shouted over him. “Two men were killed, and one of my finest was grievously wounded!”

“Leaving a gambling den, no doubt-“

“You’ve no proof-“

Aramis stifled a yawn while the argument raged on. It was the same old battle that played out near weekly, more often than not in King Louis’ presence. Louis was rather indulgent of the fact that two of the greatest men in France bickered like children; if anything, their arguments seemed to amuse him.

“Sire,” Richelieu said, elbowing Treville out of the way to stand directly before the King and bowing his head slightly. “These Musketeers run riot in the streets, unchecked, murdering those who dare to oppose them in their crimes-“

“Murder? _Crimes?_ What crimes? Surely their behavior is no worse than the Red Guard!”

“They gamble, duel, and whore, with impunity!”

“Last I checked, dueling was the only crime on that list,” Treville scoffed. “My men do not murder anyone willy-nilly, your Majesty. Unlike-”

King Louis held up a hand for silence. “I tire of both of you,” he said petulantly, glaring between Treville and Richelieu. They both bowed and took a pace backward. “Your shouting hurts my head most fearfully. I feel we have need of a new perspective.” He glanced around, his eyes settling on Athos. He beckoned and Athos limped forward. Aramis swallowed, but he did not dare glance at d’Artagnan while under royal scrutiny. “I shall ask this musketeer. How do you answer the Cardinal’s accusations, Musketeer? Are your comrades so wild?”

Athos bowed deeply.   Treville’s eyes bored into him from the left, and the Cardinal’s from the right, but he seemed not to notice this external pressure. “Your Majesty, I will not deny that we men of a…military disposition are inclined towards excitement of all sorts, especially when far from the battlefield.”

Richelieu looked as if he was about to interrupt, but the King cut him off with a gesture. He nodded encouragingly to Athos.

“While we have sworn to serve and defend Your Majesty against all dangers with our lives, we are not churchmen. We have sworn no oaths of poverty, nor chastity, nor temperance,” Athos said evenly, a perfectly modulated courtier’s voice. He paused for a moment. “Perhaps we should endeavor to be more like the Cardinal and his clergy in these regards.”

It was a beautifully subtle insult. The Cardinal’s vices were a relatively open secret to anyone at court, but he could not say a word in protest without admitting his indiscretions and shaming himself and the Church before the King. A smile tugged at Aramis’ lips, and beside him, d’Artagnan had to hastily stifle a cough. Treville was too old a courtier to laugh aloud, but Aramis saw his eyes light up with delight at his old nemesis’ discomfort. The Cardinal’s mouth snapped shut indignantly.

King Louis smiled.   “Well said, Monsieur Musketeer,” he said, waving slightly in a dismissal. Athos bowed again and rejoined his friends. Louis glanced at the Cardinal, who was clearly grinding his teeth. “There you have it, Cardinal. So long as they behave within the confines of the law, I believe we can indulge these loyal soldiers a few wild nights.”


	5. The Lover

A full moon rose while Athos walked through the Luxembourg Gardens, his hat in hand and his blue cape over his shoulder. He was freshly off-duty from the palace, and as it was such a pleasant evening, he had decided to stroll through the gardens before meeting d’Artagnan and Porthos for a late supper. Aramis would be dining elsewhere, or so he had announced that morning. The rakish glint in his eye and the smugness of his tone had left little mystery to his actual designs. Athos never thought he would be pleased to see Aramis resume his womanizing, but it was good to see life finally returning to normal in the wake of the debacle in the convent.

Suddenly a familiar voice hissed his name, interrupting his thoughts. “Athos!”

Athos froze in surprise, one hand on the hilt of his rapier, and looked around. He saw nothing but the slender line of the garden path, and the foliage of the garden, silvered in the moonlight. “Athos! Thank God. In here!”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “Aramis?”

“Yes, it’s me!” Aramis whispered. A hand emerged from a clump of neatly pruned bushes and waved. “Here.”

Athos ducked around to the other side of the bushes, the side that did not face the path. Aramis was there, barefoot and clad only in his linen drawers. His sword, belt, and scabbard lay in a sorry heap on the ground, but his boots and uniform were nowhere to be seen. He hugged his arms to his bare chest against the early evening chill and sheepishly looked at Athos. Athos raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Madame Marchand, if you must know,” Aramis explained ruefully. “’Twas the damned dogs gave me away. Useless little curs.”

The corner of Athos’ mouth tugged upward. “I thought her husband to be indifferent,” he observed with no small amount of amusement.

“Apparently not, after a few bottles of wine and too much time in the company of men more jealous than he,” Aramis shrugged. It was hardly the first time he had been set upon by an incensed husband. “Three of them came after me with swords and pistols; I had to jump out the window to get away. Lend me your cloak, Athos? Drunk though they are, they’ll soon figure where I ran.”

“Only three?” Athos needled him. Really, it was unseemly for him to enjoy his brother Musketeer’s discomfort so, but his only regret was that Porthos was not here to enjoy the spectacle. “I thought you were supposed to be the heroic type, Aramis.”

“For the love of God, Athos, just lend me your cloak!” Aramis begged, hopping uncomfortably between his bare feet. “I’ll look the fool walking home like this!”

“You scarcely need my assistance in that regard,” Athos retorted dryly, folding his arms across his chest. Aramis shot him a dirty look, and with a half-smile, Athos relented and reached up to unfasten his cape. He bundled the garment at Aramis, who caught it easily and pulled it around his shoulders with a grateful nod. “Come, I’ll see if the coast is clear.”

Aramis bent to gather his sword and belt, grumbling something about his missing uniform as he did so. Athos stepped back around the bush, onto the path. He was about to call to Aramis when a chorus of shouts broke out behind him.

“The Musketeer!”

“There he is! Get him!”

“Halt, you adulterous dog!”

Athos whirled around. His heart sank. Three men with drawn swords were running at him, though none too well, as they all stumbled and weaved with inebriation. In the lead he assumed was Monsieur Marchand, who was as tall as Porthos and near twice as wide. They had recognized his uniform and taken him for Aramis.

Before Athos could protest, one of the other men raised a pistol. Athos ducked as it discharged and the shot whistled far too close over his head. The man stopped to reload, but the others kept coming. Athos reluctantly drew his own rapier. He had little wish to fight; drunks often made for dangerous opponents, as one could never quite predict what they would do.

“There’s been a mistake,” he shouted at them, standing his ground. “I am not the man you seek!”

“Lies!” Marchand bellowed, swinging wildly at Athos. “I saw a Musketeer this very night, in my home, with my _wife_!”

Athos easily parried his blade and danced backwards out of the reach of his arm. “I assure you, monsieur,” he retorted. “I was not in your home this night, nor ever.”

Marchand roared and stumbled after him, swinging his rapier with more rage than skill. It was easy enough for Athos to stay out of his reach. “Shoot him, one of you!” he shouted in frustration.

The second man, the one not fumbling to reload with wine-numbed fingers, was lining up a shot. Before Athos could react, Aramis charged out of the bushes and slammed into him. The pistol went off with a loud _bang!_ Aramis cried out with pain, even as they continued to scrabble in the dirt. His heart clenched but there was naught Athos could do as Marchand and the third man, who threw his pistol away in frustration and went for his sword, were on him.

Athos kicked the legs out from the smaller man, a dirty trick he had learned from Porthos, and slammed a boot into the side of his head when he fell. He went still. Marchand came at Athos swinging wildly and bellowing like a bull, but Athos managed to catch his blade on his guard and twist the rapier out of Marchand’s grasp. The sword flew off into the darkness. Disarmed, Marchand stumbled over his own boots in his haste to retreat and fell ungracefully backwards.

“There were no Musketeers in your house this night,” Athos told him coldly, pressing the tip of his rapier to Marchand’s fat throat. “You were mistaken. Have I made myself clear?”

Marchand’s throat bobbed nervously. “Yes, monsieur,” he squeaked, his eyes very wide.

“Good,” Athos said dismissively, releasing Marchand and replacing his sword in his scabbard. The large man hauled himself to his feet and hastily limped away, followed by his battered companions. Athos smirked after them. “Aramis?” he called, glancing around for his friend.

“Here,” Aramis said in a pained voice, and Athos turned. Aramis had regained his feet, but there was an alarming pallor about his skin that could mean only one thing. One of his arms had retreated inside the cloak to clutch his side, and the moonlight glinted wetly off a dark stain on the blue fabric.

“Is it bad?” Athos asked with concern.

“Only a…graze,” Aramis said, crouching to retrieve his sword. He swayed as he stood back up, and Athos moved to take his arm. “I’ve had worse,” he protested, even as he sagged gratefully against Athos.

“You owe me a cloak,” Athos told him, while they stumbled back to the garrison.

* * *

 

To no one’s surprise, a maid arrived at the garrison on the morrow carrying a large basket containing Aramis’ uniform, pistol, and a small purse. Aramis withdrew a small note on scented paper from his folded jacket and scanned it quickly, chuckling and wincing as the motion hurt his bandaged ribs.

“Madame Marchand apologizes for last evening,” he said aloud. “She hopes this will make up for any inconvenience, and hopes to…”

His voice trailed off as he continued to read, and his cheeks colored. Porthos moved to snatch the note from his fingers, but Aramis dodged and tucked it in his shirt, out of sight and safely out of Porthos’ reach. Aramis wagged a warning finger at him and Porthos laughed aloud. Athos smiled, and Aramis tossed him the small purse. Coins clinked together as he caught it.

“For your cloak,”Aramis told him with a grin. “I’d say we’re even now.”

Athos hefted the purse experimentally and mock-bowed in his seat. “Fair enough.”


	6. The Specter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, everyone! This concludes the story. Thanks so much for reading! :D

* * *

 

“So we’re to take him back to Paris?” Porthos asked, while the four musketeers waited on the docks below an English ship at Calais. The English were late, as usual, and they were all bored. None of them particularly liked playing errand boy for Richelieu, but such was a soldier’s lot in life.

“Those are our orders,” Athos said evenly.

“Who is this man?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Does it matter?” Aramis said with a shrug. He fanned himself with his hat, as the sun was bright and the day was warm. “Though I am curious to know what he did that merited such a long spell in an English prison.”

“Not to mention the Cardinal’s involvement in getting out,” d’Artagnan added. It was curious, Aramis thought. Their orders had come from the highest level, and were strikingly vague for a matter of such apparent importance.

Finally, a pair of English soldiers appeared on the ship’s gangplank, leading a third man between them. “Delivery for Cardinal Richelieu,” one of them spat in English.

He propelled the prisoner bodily forward with a mighty shove. He tried to catch his balance, but his hands were chained before him and he toppled to the wooden planks. The English retreated back to their ship without so much as a tip of their hats.

“Friendly lot, aren’t they?” Aramis observed, and d’Artagnan smirked.

Porthos hauled their charge to his feet. He was not tall, nor as gaunt as Aramis might have expected after so many years in prison. He stood straight and carried himself well, though his once-fine clothes hung all in tatters and rags. A pair of piercing blue eyes stared mockingly out at them from beneath unkempt, stringy blond hair.

“My thanks,” he said to Porthos in a quiet, nasal drawl.

Aramis moved to flank their prisoner on his other side. “Shall we?” he said aloud, glancing at Porthos.

The prisoner seemed to be in no hurry to move. “Am I to walk to Paris in chains?” he asked, gesturing a little with his bound hands.

“We’ve a horse for you back at the inn,” d’Artagnan told him. “But the chains stay. Right, Athos?”

They all instinctively looked to Athos, but he did not respond. He stared at their prisoner, seemingly frozen in place. The prisoner’s eyes roved to Athos in turn and his brow furrowed slightly. Athos quickly looked away and tugged his hat down low over his face. D’Artagnan raised an eyebrow at Aramis, but Aramis had no answers for him.

Athos turned on his heel and strode away, heading back towards the inn. “Bring him,” he snapped over his shoulder to Porthos and Aramis.

They exchanged a questioning look before following. Aramis’ brow furrowed. If anything, Athos appeared to recognize their prisoner. He’d taken two steps after Athos before realizing that the prisoner was not moving with him. Aramis glanced back to see Porthos gave the blond man a little shove, but he did not move. He stared at Athos’ back.

“ _Mon Dieu_ ,” he said loudly, so that Athos would be sure to hear, “is that you, La Fère?”

Athos stopped in his tracks. Aramis saw his shoulders tense as if to brace himself before turning slowly to face the prisoner. His lips pulled back from his lips a little distastefully when he spoke. “You know very well who I am, Rochefort, and I know you.”

A cold light came into Rochefort’s eyes and a smirk played about the corner of his lips. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” he drawled, and there was no mistaking the glee in his voice. “I scarcely recognized you under all the dirt. Olivier de la Fère, King’s Musketeer. Your father must be turning in his grave.”

“I could say the same of you,” Athos retorted with no small amount of venom. D’Artagnan put a hand on his arm and he turned away stiffly. Athos’ shoulders squared, but Aramis knew he was badly shaken. “Come. We’ve some miles to go before dark.”

Porthos jerked his head at d’Artagnan, indicating the prisoner. D’Artagnan drew his pistol and immediately traded places with Porthos. Aramis guessed what he was about, and quickly took three long strides to block Athos’ path. Athos shot him a long-suffering look, but Porthos had already come up behind him. Together they drew Athos a few paces to the side.

“You know him?” Porthos asked in a low voice.

Athos sighed. He looked pensive and vaguely ill, like he always did when confronted with some aspect of his long-buried life before the Musketeers. “We were at court together, once.”

“Rochefort?” Aramis asked. He frowned slightly, thinking. If he remembered correctly, there had been a great uproar at court some years back over a man called Rochefort. “Wasn’t the Vicomte de Rochefort arrested a few years ago?”

“ _Comte_ de Rochefort,” Rochefort corrected him loudly, as if to demonstrate his presence. “My father was called to God while I was yet imprisoned.”

“Tragic,” Porthos grumbled.

“Bring him,” Athos said shortly, slipping out from between his friends and continuing down the muddy street.

Aramis nodded to d’Artagnan, who moved to the rear of their little group. Aramis and Porthos resumed their positions on Rochefort’s sides. Porthos gave him a none-too-gentle shove forward, and they were moving again. It wasn’t far to the inn and the horses. Aramis sensed the sooner they were rid of this prisoner, the better.

“What is this then, La Fère, some kind of absurd penance for your wife?” Rochefort asked while they walked. D’Artagnan cuffed the back of his head, and he paused to give the boy a look cold enough to freeze Aramis’ blood and loaded with enough menace that d’Artagnan instinctively took a step back. Athos’ jaw clenched, and Aramis imagined he could hear his teeth grinding. “A curious sort of penance, isn’t it? Helping to burn the Comtesse de Larroque as a heretic, I mean.”

Athos stopped, bringing the group to a halt. Porthos growled low in his throat.

“You’re very well informed for someone new freed,” Aramis said sharply.

Rochefort ignored his unspoken question and turned that icy, dangerous smile at him for a moment before continuing. “I shall never forgive the Cardinal for that, for all his intervention with King Charles,” he said, his voice light and conversational. “That woman was no more a heretic than you, La Fère, and far less than I.”

He paused for a moment, glancing down at the chains that bound his hands. “Though what would one expect from a man who hung his wife.”

For a pair of tense heartbeats, Athos went very still. Porthos’s eyes went wide, and Aramis’ breath caught in his throat. Athos turned on the spot and quite deliberately slammed his fist into Rochefort’s jaw. Rochefort tumbled backwards into the mud. Aramis lunged forward and grabbed Athos’ heaving shoulders, dragging him back from their prisoner. Several people around them looked up, but between Porthos’ glower and d’Artagnan’s pistol, they quickly went back to their business.

“What he said,” Aramis quipped to Rochefort, over Athos’ head. He could feel Athos trembling with rage under his fingers, and his face hardened.

Rochefort laughed from the ground. Nobody moved to help him to his feet. He struggled to his knees slowly, laughing the whole time. Blood flowed freely from his nose, and he reached up to feel his jaw with his bound hands. Athos shook off Aramis’ hands and stalked towards his horse without a second glance at Rochefort.

“Your wife sends her regards,” he told Athos.

Athos went white with anger, but this time he refused to be baited. Porthos was not so temperate, however, and aimed a hefty kick at Rochefort’s ribs. His burbling laughter stopped.

“Our orders were bring him back unharmed!” d’Artagnan protested.

“It’s not our fault if he trips onto a rock or walks into a rake, is it?” Aramis said coldly.

Rochefort’s icy eyes fell on him, and a chill went down Aramis’ spine. “I see I shall never forget the courtesy of the gallant Musketeers.”

Porthos’ eyes narrowed dangerously at the insult, but at a glare from Athos, he did nothing. “Get him on a horse,” Athos said dismissively over his shoulder. Aramis could hear the effort it took for him to keep his voice steady. Athos stalked to his own mount and climbed into the saddle. He did not look at Rochefort again.

Porthos dragged Rochefort to his feet by his collar and bundled him towards a horse. “One more word out of you,” he growled, while Rochefort scrambled into the saddle, “and you’ll be walking to Paris.”

Aramis mounted his own horse and levelled his pistol at Rochefort, in case he decided to try something while Porthos bound his hands to the saddle. There was a rather large part of Aramis that hoped he would, but Rochefort merely glowered as Porthos carried out this final indignity. Unfortunately, he seemed loath to try his luck. Athos mechanically drew up his horse while he waited for Porthos and d’Artagnan to mount. His eyes were sad and distant. Aramis gripped his reins tightly. Athos was not one for scenes, but Aramis knew that below the stolid façade his friend was distraught, and it pained him to see Athos so.

“Are you quite sure you don’t want to hit him again?” Aramis said lightly to Athos, attempting to break the thick pall of tension. “I would gladly volunteer for that duty.”

“No, Aramis,” Athos said evenly, but he was still pale. “We’ll leave him to the King’s justice. This time.”

“Pity,” Aramis replied, winking at Porthos and d’Artagnan. “I rather liked the rake idea.”


End file.
